My head jerks up.
Bruno is staring at me from his wheelchair, dark eyes burning with something that looks almost like accusation. His knuckles are white against the armrests.
"What?"
"You heard me." His voice is low, rough, dangerous. "If you give a shit about him, and clearly you do, since you're sitting here shaking like a leaf, why the fuck did you leave?"
I blink at him, my brain struggling to catch up. "I don't?—"
"Bruno," Pietro warns.
Bruno ignores him. His gaze stays locked on mine, unflinching. "My brother has been drinking himself into an early grave for the past weeks. Won't eat. Won't sleep. Walked into that warehouse alone like he had a death wish because some woman disappeared."
The words land like blows.
Each one.
Death wish.
"That's not—" My voice comes out wrong, strangled.
"Bruno, enough." Lorenzo's voice cuts through the tension.
But Bruno doesn't stop. He leans forward in his chair, and even sitting, even broken, he radiates the same dangerous energy as his brothers. "You know what Nico's problem is? He doesn't know how to love people in small ways. He doesn't know how to just talk about things. He sees a problem, he eliminates it. That's how he was raised. That's how we all were raised."
My throat burns.
I don't say anything.
I just look at him.
Bruno Sartori sits in his wheelchair like a king on a throne. Dark hair falls across his forehead. His jaw is sharp, stubbled, clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping beneath the skin. Dark circles shadow his eyes.
Rage. Helplessness. Pain that has nowhere to go.
He's wearing a dark sweater that hangs off shoulders still broad with muscle. His hands grip those armrests like they're the only things keeping him tethered to this earth.
He doesn't know me.
The thought settles in my chest like a stone.
Bruno doesn't know a single thing about what happened between me and Nico.
And even if he did, making me feel guilty right now isn't exactly productive.
Thanks for the insight, Bruno. Really helpful while your brother bleeds out on an operating table.
I don't say it. I don't say anything at all.
I just keep looking at him.
"Bruno." Vittoria's voice is small, exhausted. "Please stop."
He finally breaks eye contact with me. His jaw works like he's chewing. For a long moment, he just sits there, radiating fury and grief in equal measure. Then he wheels himself backward, turning away from all of us to face the window.
The silence stretches.
I stare at my hands in my lap. They've stopped shaking, which feels wrong somehow. Like my body has decided to go numb instead of fall apart.
